I heard my phone ring yesterday, and by ring, I mean played Careless Whisper by George Michael. I scrunched my face – who the hell would be calling me? I didn’t answer. Partly because I am the worst human being, partly because social interaction after work is more painful than a root canal. Who needs to talk to people when you can binge the My Favorite Murder podcast while eating taquitos?
Shocked as shit, I looked at my phone and saw it was my niece who called. The following text interaction ensued:
“Are you okay, kiddo?”
“Yes. I just called you.”
“Did something happen??”
“NO. I JUST said I called you. As in, called because I wanted to talk you. Is there something wrong with that?”
She heard that I had watched the latest and greatest of Netflix obsessions, the series ‘You’, starring Penn Badgley, the quintessential off-brand actor doomed to play the sexy stalker in apparently every tv series he’s cast in. Maybe consider a new agent, Penn.
My niece and I Facetimed and discussed the Netflix flavor of the week.
The reasons up front are obvious why the Joe Goldberg character (Badgley) is both the manifested dream and nightmare surrounding dating in a big city. A lot of his inner monologue reveals the disgusting and apparently obvious lengths vapid women will go to for attention or relevance, which I know many will disagree with but I have an even more unpopular opinion (warning – spoilers ahead): Beck is the WORST and deserved to die. Yes, yes, Joe is psycho straight up with a twist, but Beck continually proved just what a basic bitch she was and I’m here to tell you why you should have been rooting for her death from episode 1.
Beck lived in a place she couldn’t afford. Right away, I Tweeted how there were an awful amount of windows in Beck’s ground floor SOHO apartment for an MFA student who has to wear clothes riddled with moth holes. Girl wasn’t even stressed out as she should have been when her bed frame broke and wanna know why? She knew she could ask her estranged former dead-beat daddy for the money. Up until episode 4, she’s been touting to all her friends and vagrants willing to listen that she found her dad on the floor dead after ODing. Turns out, he’s very much alive, remarried a Jesus freak, and the only addiction he now has is dressing like a Newsie at a Charles Dickens festival. (Yes, that’s a real thing. I Googled it.)
How did that conversation even go?
“I need money – I broke my bed frame.”
“…being a whore bag.”
Exactly. Live within your means like every other disillusioned dreamer getting an arts degree, bitch.
Beck has zero black friends. It’s fucking NYC in 2018 and this hooker doesn’t even have ONE squad member sporting tracks or a curly mane? The dumb Asian-American doesn’t count as ‘ethnic’. One of the things Joe accurately points out while following this hooker all over Manhattan is that her friends are hot garbage. The writer didn’t even give her ONE normal ass friend, and the one that you think might be, is all sorts of obsessed with getting in her pants and is apparently allergic to blue collared workers.
As aforementioned, Beck is broke AF, yet hangs out with people who consider ‘social media influencer’ an actual job. A black girlfriend would have kept it real and done a better job to dissuade Beck from continually dating assholes, especially this 2019 Norman Bates equivalent. Black friends move the plotline along and add flare, plus they make the world a better place. So since she didn’t have ANY, she was dead already – on the inside.
Beck has a severe lack of awareness for someone living in New York. I used to live on the 9th floor across from the EPA #2 building in Crystal City. There were beautiful floor to ceiling windows that unfortunately always had the blinds drawn. Why? Because I didn’t want some middle-aged loser having visual access to my fabulous life while drinking a second cup of shitty coffee at work after his mid-morning dump. Why the hell is this clueless waste of oxygen masturbating on her living room couch which FACES the windows to the street?
And are we supposed to believe that this bitch does nothing but write poetry for class and has never ONCE binge watched SVU while doing so? For some reason, Beck is none-the-wiser that some dude is standing outside her apartment and pleasuring himself while watching her screw some bartender. You have two jobs when walking the streets of New York as a woman: Don’t get raped or murdered. That’s it. All you had to do was take a quick scan around and you might have realized you were dealing with a Grade A psycho. But I guess since you get wasted and fall into electric subway lines, it’s a miracle you’ve been alive for as long as you have been.
Beck wants to be a fucking writer. Oh, of all the asinine aspirations and clichés. Because all basic bitches who have rich friends that make her do drugs in Greenwich are the next Virginia Woolf. She doesn’t lead a life worth talking about unless being mediocre at the clerk job your boyfriend gave you out of pity is the fruit of literary genius. 75% of the season is Beck complaining about all the money she doesn’t have and somehow lacks any general know how to realize that being a writer is even worse than being a book store manager. I mean, her professor who controls her TA job sexually harasses her, and she had to have someone who has made a pastime of jacking off to panties stolen from her empty apartment make her realize she should show this prof what’s what in this #MeToo era. Just because you’re moody and whiney all the damn time does not a Pulitzer make.
Beck ignores the one thing women do better than any man alive – her instincts. Women’s intuition is the only thing that has kept women superior to men over time. Yes. Women are superior. We have a body part to create NEW HUMANS, which makes us everything. Joe does a good job of being Annual Creep of the Year, and she STILL dates him. It should have been a deal breaker when Joe showed up to the event she snuck out of the city to go to. “Oh, I saw the diner sign and Googled it to see where you were and then drove there.” What in the actual fuck. No. That is NOT romantic. Flowers are romantic. Bringing home a sandwich is romantic. Doing a choreographed dance number at a train station is romantic. Racking the depths of the internet to see where a certain eating establishment is that showed up in the back of a random ass selfie is FUCKED UP. She hadn’t even had satisfying sex yet, she should have Thank U, Nexted him right away. But no. Instead, she repeatedly quieted the smart inner voice that tells you it’s perfectly fine to eat pizza rolls at midnight because you deserve them. And we don’t forgive you for it, Beck.
Beck, which is her last name by the way, and not short for Rebecca. Her fucking first name is GUINEVERE and she chooses to go by that pedestrian surname. By all accounts, she is a garbage person. And you know what? Let’s all thank Joe. He killed her off the show and thus, her book became a best seller even though it’s probably full of whiney bullshit. Now bring on a worthy female lead.
Catherine is a native Detroiter currently residing in Washington D.C. She has seven years of experience in digital marketing strategy and communications. She enjoys the occasional Pop Tart and shamelessly eats breakfast burritos on weekday mornings. Catherine is certified in Google AdWords, SEO, content marketing, social media, and sarcasm. Catherine is also partial to dresses and skirts over pants and has been mistaken for many daytime cable show actresses.